Today, I did just a tiny bit of self-pampering: I got my nails done. They’re red and green and have little bows on my left ring finger and right middle finger. I spent some much needed time with my very pregnant best friend, resting my palm on her tummy and feeling the baby push back at me (an insane experience); I went to the gym for the first time in 3 weeks, I did some reading, I started work on a new short story, and I dusted off my flash drive to take a look at my novel-in-progress.
I’m up and down but mostly up this week, and I thank my blogging family yet again for your constant words of encouragement. I’ve made the decision to see a therapist, and am honestly excited by the idea. I’ve talked to several people now who have been to therapy, and they all say the same thing: “Everyone should see a therapist at some point in their lives.”
The excitement of the holidays is among us, and I must say my mind (and gut) are getting fully into the Christmas spirit. Let’s eat – I’ll feel bad about it later.
I’m including a short excerpt from where I left my novel, in the mist of NaNoWriMo and my negative attitude. I’m feeling suddenly inspired to get back on track. 🙂
I sat on Mr. Paoli’s couch, one afternoon when I was seventeen, drinking lemonade and wiggling my toes through the dust that floated in a ray of sunlight filtering through the window. My father had shrunk our bank account with his trips to the liquor store and I needed a car, so I bought a new pushup bra at the corner store and snapped it on with my tightest, low-cut shirt.
“And what do I get out of it?” He sat next to me and moved my feet to his lap.
“Like you don’t already know the answer to that.” I lifted one foot and moved it gently over the crotch of his pants. My disgust for him had been stifled by my love for his money.
He grabbed my ankle and pursed his lips. I looked up at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” I laughed. “Something else?”
“One of those afternoons”, he started, “when your father was at work and I offered to help your mother. One of those afternoons she let me.”
He stared at me, his hand still on my ankle. I sat up and curled my knees into my chest, releasing it. “Let you what?” My gaze fell to the half empty glass of lemonade on the coffee table.
“Angel.” He reached over, trying to put his hand on my knee, but I backed into the arm of the couch.
The room began to go dark around me; the sunlight narrowed to slits in front of my eyes before fading altogether. I felt cold, and a layer of clammy sweat formed on my hands and forehead.
“Don’t” I mustered through the fog.